my magic comes from sagebrush and pine needles and
aspen trees dipped in gold
it dripped down from the constellations around
Saturn
became part of the ocean, became part of
the mountains, became part of my
thighs
my magic is from every time i've been told that bleeding is a sign of
weakness
it's from keeping my grief as a weapon
for too long, letting it stitch me back
together
my mother never tied my magic to my hair
she collected it on CD's and tucked it between
the pages of books we stacked on tables and chairs and porches
my father and I stirred magic into coffee that we drank over campfires and in cabins along the sea
he recognizes the magic on my skin and in the way I read stars instead of people
my magic comes from ticket stubs
my magic comes from the fear that someone might learn to love me, that they'll fall and cut themselves
my magic comes from the streaks of coal on my knuckles from where they tried
to paint over the gold
my magic is stacked inside mason jars and
poured into bath water and
split into eight separate graves
my magic has turned me into a radio tuner for voices that aren't there, a sixth sense for the changing of seasons and songs that haven't been written yet
it's turned me into a thunderstorm, a vessel too small for so much electricity
my magic is painful, a reminder of my humanity
but it's caught in my
throat like tree roots, it
isn't going
anywhere
